


Intentional Mistakes

by manic_intent



Series: Independent Minds [2]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Imperial!Yang, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, That AU where Oskar has to take Yang's cat to the vet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22359523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuenthal was already in a bad mood as he strode into the waiting room of the veterinary clinic, and seeing Paul von Oberstein seated in a corner of it didn’t help. “You,” Reuenthal said, his lip curling in distaste.“Senior Admiral,” Oberstein said.
Relationships: Oskar von Reuenthal/Yang Wenli
Series: Independent Minds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609534
Comments: 2
Kudos: 115





	Intentional Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beingevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingevil/gifts).



> For @beingevil, who asked for Oberstein interacting with Yang, and was fine with it being a Reuyang story, so, here is a continuation to my omegaverse Reuyang series.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I’ve only read the LOGH books. I haven’t watched the anime.

Senior Admiral Oskar von Reuenthal was already in a bad mood as he strode into the waiting room of the veterinary clinic, and seeing Paul von Oberstein seated in a corner of it didn’t help. “You,” Reuenthal said, his lip curling in distaste. 

“Senior Admiral,” Oberstein said. The Minister of Military Affairs of the New Galactic Empire swept Reuenthal with his usual impassive stare. He had a narrow ascetic face with two cybernetic eyes, mouse-brown hair and two silver locks. Despite also being an alpha, Oberstein was not known to demonstrate many so-called traditionally alpha traits—he was a bloodless, cold man of few pursuits, as far as Reuenthal knew.

A black and white dog sat at Oberstein’s feet, looking up at Reuenthal with warm dark eyes. Its thin tail slowly slapped against the tiled floor as Reuenthal walked over to the counter to talk to the vet nurse on duty, setting the cat carrier he held on the low table. 

The nurse looked between Reuenthal and Oberstein worriedly. “Oh… Senior Admiral.” She blushed a little as her eyes tracked shyly over Reuenthal’s handsome face, though Reuenthal couldn’t scent any pheromones from her. A beta, likely, or an omega on blockers. “Um, do you have an appointment?” 

“Yes. Appointment for Admiral,” Reuenthal said. Not for the first time, he wished that the damned cat didn’t have such a ludicrous name. 

“Admiral um. Sorry, I don’t see an Admiral von Reuenthal in the appointment database, I mean, not you sir, I meant, all appointments are made under the client’s name and the owner’s surname.” The nurse reddened further, flustered. 

“Admiral Yang,” Reuenthal said with a sour expression. 

“Oh! Yes. Sorry, yes. I see it. Doctor Karstein will see you soon. Please take a seat, your Excellency.” 

Reuenthal inclined his head. For a moment he was tempted to sit at the furthest end of the room from Oberstein, but that would be petty. He sat politely near to Oberstein instead, leaving Admiral’s crate on the floor. Oberstein’s dog wagged its tail again, but it didn’t try to investigate the crate when Admiral hissed. 

“Is Senior Admiral Yang’s cat ill?” Oberstein asked. The coldness of his stare undermined the solicitousness of the question. Strange. Oberstein was not known to have much patience for the banality of small talk. 

“The little bastard probably ate something he shouldn’t have,” Reuenthal said, having never been a big lover of cats. “He’s been throwing up white bubbles every hour or so.” 

“Ah… that sounds serious. It’s kind of you to bring him for his appointment, given the Duke’s summons.” 

Reuenthal scowled. He hadn’t wanted to do a favour like this for Yang at all and wasn’t sure how he had been talked into it. Yang’s ward, Julian, was a highly capable young man who would’ve taken care of it normally, but he was in school at this hour. Yang himself had been called into an audience with Duke Reinhard von Lohengramm. There were still any number of minions whom Yang could have reliably tasked with this chore, but Yang had decided on Reuenthal for some reason. 

“Is your dog ill?” Reuenthal asked, reluctantly deciding to make a minimal effort to be civil. Besides, the dog was well-behaved and friendly. 

“He’s had an upset stomach for days, and he’s been more lethargic than usual.” Oberstein launched into an uncomfortably detailed list of an old dog’s ailments, which surprised Reuenthal—he wouldn’t have thought that the ruthless Minister was capable of genuinely caring about any living thing save for political ends. 

It was a relief when the vet nurse summoned Reuenthal to a consultation room. Reuenthal inclined his head to Oberstein, picked up Admiral’s crate, and made a tactical retreat. The vet was overawed by Reuenthal’s uniform, turning pink as he looked up appreciatively at Reuenthal’s face. Usually, a pretty, elegant omega like this would’ve been precisely Reuenthal’s favourite flavour of distraction. Ever since Yang had so unceremoniously shown up at Reuenthal’s door during that one time he’d gone on a medically scheduled heat, however, Reuenthal hadn’t looked at anyone else. Despite his reputation, he was habitually monogamous when in a relationship, because anything else tended to be too dramatic and complicated for his tastes. What he had with Yang was not technically a relationship by any measure, but somehow—

“Senior Admiral,” Doctor Karstein said. Reuenthal blinked, looking back at the consulting bench where Admiral sat as an aggressively shedding lump of sadness and outrage. The fluffy white cat was a pointless creature as pets went—Reuenthal didn’t understand the enduring human fascination with these Earth-origin creatures. He’d seen far more interesting native fauna on colonised planets. 

“What’s wrong with the thing?” Reuenthal asked, keeping his tone brisk. The vet frowned at him but launched into a quick breakdown of the different ailments that Admiral might be suffering from. Apparently, the Admiral’s breed made him particularly pointless even where cats were concerned. He might have eaten any number of things that a typical cat would’ve just processed. Or he might have one of the genetic diseases that his breed was known to be susceptible to. Reuenthal told Doctor Karstein to forward him a summary, watched Admiral wail as it was given a shot, and stuffed the furry monster back into its crate. 

Oberstein wasn’t in the waiting room outside, which was a small saving grace. Reuenthal paid up and left quickly, getting into his land car outside and instructing the chauffeur to take him back to Yang’s residence. He glanced at the crate as Admiral let out a miserable yowl and rapped his knuckles against the top. “Quiet,” Reuenthal told it. “You have a good life.” Spoiled by Julian and by Yang, lounging in the large residence with nothing to do but sleep? The little monster was luckier than many actual people.

Undeterred, Admiral yowled more loudly. Reuenthal exhaled. Yang was going to owe him for this.

#

Doctor Ada Hausner clucked her tongue as she examined the spotted dog on the bench. It stared patiently at her as she checked its teeth. “Needs brushing,” Hausner said, pursing her wrinkled lips. “Nails need clipping, fur needs more grooming—there are tangles here and here. Ears—ears are fine. Minister Oberstein, taking care of an animal means taking _care_ of it, not just feeding it chicken. Which, by the way, is not a healthy diet for a dog in the long run. She needs more nutrition.”

Oberstein nodded slowly. Over time, he’d tried a handful of vet clinics and house-call vets in the Imperial City and had settled on Hausner. The old woman had no fear in her, even when lecturing the notorious Minister of Military Affairs. “She won’t eat anything else,” Oberstein said. 

“That can’t be true. Isn’t she a stray? She’d have starved to death by now if she’d only eat chicken.”

This had been Oberstein’s conclusion as well, but he’d been helpless before the dog’s solemn decision only to eat chicken or die of starvation. There was something impressive in the old dog’s unrelenting resolve, a resolve that Oberstein sometimes wished he could see in humans. Too many of the people he knew lived like tall grass, bending to the wind—any wind. 

“I’ve tried,” Oberstein said. Mouldering in storage at his modest home were sample bags from every premium brand of dog kibble available on the planet, all of which had been politely refused. “Vitamins?”

“If you can get her to swallow them, sure. We can prescribe something, though it’s not ideal. As to what’s been wrong with her lately, leave her with us. We’d have to run a full diagnostic. You can pick her up at the end of the day.”

“Is it very serious?” Oberstein asked, tensing slightly. 

“Can’t tell you that with just a physical exam. She _is_ an old dog.” Hausner tickled it behind its ears, and the dog wagged its tail slowly. "Anything else?"

“How long has Admiral Yang been using the clinic?” Oberstein asked.

Hausner sniffed. “That’s none of your business. I’ve mentioned this before, Minister. I’m here to take care of people’s pets. I don’t care what their owner does, or who they are. And if I ever catch you trying to turn any of my staff, you’d be banned from here.” She patted the dog and met Oberstein’s stare unblinkingly. “Ask him yourself, if you’re that curious.” 

“I might.” Oberstein glanced at the dog, keeping his hands to himself as it looked up at him trustingly. “I’ll come back for her at six.”

#

“Ah… you’re still here,” Yang Wen-li said, looking bemused as he noticed Reuenthal on his couch. Julian had retired for the night, and Admiral was a sleeping ball on an armchair.

Stifling a yawn, Reuenthal set the tablet that he’d been checking his messages on aside. He was in more casual wear, having changed out of his uniform after work before heading back to Yang’s modest residence. The house was on the outskirts of the city proper, in an understated and inexpensive residential district. Reuenthal preferred his official residence, if only because it was only a block away from his designated office. 

“What did Reinhard want?” Reuenthal asked. 

“This and that,” Yang said vaguely, which meant yet another argument about deployment. Yang had been stubbornly resisting deployment of his so-called Yang Fleet over the past few months, but that was nothing new. It was an open secret in the Empire that Reinhard’s Magician loathed the act of war.

Reuenthal rose from the couch, rubbing his back. “Julian prepared dinner for you. Irish stew. It’s cold,” Reuenthal said, as Yang brightened up and looked over to the covered bowls on the kitchen counter. “Shower, I’ll heat it up.” 

Yang gave him another puzzled look. He was carrying a large wooden box under one arm. Setting it down on the dining table, Yang disappeared in the direction of the washing facilities. Reuenthal busied himself in the kitchen, where thankfully Julian had stored everything in logical order. When Yang emerged in a loose long-sleeved shirt and pants, Reuenthal was setting out cutlery and bowls on the dining table. 

Yang waved Reuenthal to a seat and took a seat. “Hm, not bad,” Yang said after a few spoonfuls of stew.

“You’re not meant to treat the war orphans from the ward program as servants,” Reuenthal said. 

“I know. I told him.” Yang lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. “If he wants to cook, he can cook. How did the vet visit go?” 

“I sent you a detailed report.” 

“Don’t make me read a field report about a cat when I’m off-duty.” 

Reuenthal grimaced. “You can’t be that lazy. It’s your damned cat.” 

Yang waved a spoon at Reuenthal. “This is why Admiral doesn’t like you. He knows when people don’t like him.” 

“Oh, I’m aware.” It had taken three military aides twenty minutes to corner and crate the little monster, which was why Reuenthal had been late to the vet appointment. “Oberstein was there as well.”

“Really? Ah… because of his dog?”

“How did you know that he had a dog?” 

“Hilda said he adopted one. An old dog, I think. What was wrong with it?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Reuenthal said. Oberstein and his associates could jump into the nearest sun for all Reuenthal cared. Yang frowned, his palpable disappointment somehow uncomfortable to bear. Looking away, Reuenthal tapped the wooden box on the table. “What’s this?” It had a black grid drawn over its flat surface. 

“Go.”

“What?” 

“It’s what the game is called. ‘Go’.” Yang reached over and pressed a cunningly hidden pressure plate on the flank of the box. A tray slid out, divided into two sections. White seeds and black seeds. Reuenthal picked up a black seed, examining it. It was cold to the touch. 

“This doesn’t look like a particularly exciting game,” Reuenthal said. Other than colour, the seeds were indistinguishable from one another. 

“It’s the oldest continuously played board game in human civilisation—it’s still played in parts of Phezzan. This was probably a Phezzanese gift to the Empire at some point. I found it in the Ministry of War and thought it was interesting.” 

“Did you ask Reinhard before you could take it?”

Yang looked puzzled. “No, why? It was left in storage.”

“What were you doing in the storage vault… No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“Reinhard had an illustrated copy of some ancient Earth-era book called the ‘Art of War’ on vellum and wanted to show it to me to prove a point of some kind, but we couldn’t find it. There were shelves of old history books in there, though. I sat down and started reading and eventually he went away. On my way out, I took the box. That’s all,” Yang said in a reasonable tone, as though people casually stole from Imperial vaults any day of the week. 

“Were you alone in there with him?” Reinhard asked. Yang looked surprised at the question, and Reinhard bit down on his scowl, picking up a few of the seeds. 

“Alone with him and any number of bodyguards and archivists, sure,” Yang said, eating slowly as he watched Reuenthal curiously. “You’ve been in a strange way since the favour.” 

The favour. That was how Yang referred to the time he’d chosen Reuenthal to service him through his required heat. The incident did deserve such a bloodless title—Reuenthal had come away from it with the nagging suspicion that Yang had been heartily bored, despite Reuenthal’s best efforts. Reuenthal had wanted to lock the mildly embarrassing experience and the memory away in the deepest recesses of his mind. Still, to his annoyance, he’d found himself acting like hopeful suitor ever since. Running Yang’s errands and trying his hand at minimal domesticity. It was galling, but instinct was a right bastard at the best of times. 

“It’s a strategy game,” Yang said when Reuenthal stayed silent. “The aim is to surround more territory than your opponent. You take turns placing seeds on vacant points on the board. Once placed, they can’t be removed unless ‘captured’—surrounded by opposing stones on all orthogonally-adjacent points. The game ends by mutual agreement, at which point the winner’s determined by the number of captured stones and surrounded territory. White gets added points for playing second.” 

“If you want to play a strategy game, play 3D chess,” Reuenthal said, with a faint smirk. Yang was famously terrible at 3D chess. 

“This is a far more complex game than 3D chess.” 

“An ancient game consisting of just a grid and differently coloured seeds? I doubt it.” Reuenthal placed a black seed on a random point on the board. “There. Your turn.” 

Yang smiled. He got up and climbed on the table, sitting cross-legged before the wooden box as he considered the board. Reuenthal chuckled, recognising the habit for what it was. “A game like this is hardly going to require your strategic faculties to such an extent,” Reuenthal said. Yang was known for assuming this position on the bridge of his flagship whenever he felt like he needed to concentrate on a battle.

“This game has more possible moves than there are atoms in the universe,” Yang said, leaning his cheek on a palm. 

“Whoever told you that is full of it.” 

“It’s not hyperbole; it’s math.” Yang selected a white seed and set it on the board. 

“Keep eating,” Reuenthal reminded him, nudging over the forgotten bowl. Yang grumbled under his breath but picked it up. He was pretty like this, loose-limbed and relaxed, with his still-damp hair feathering over his face, close enough that Reuenthal could breathe him in, soap and scent both. Distracted, Reuenthal placed his next seed on a whim. 

“Are you playing, or are you pretending?” Yang lowered his spoon. 

“Have you played this game before?”

“No?”

“Then how would you know that I’m pretending?” Reuenthal pointed out. “We’re both amateurs.” 

“Can’t you tell when someone isn’t doing their best?” Yang asked, considering the board again before placing his next seed. 

“I can tell when someone’s bored,” Reuenthal said, with more bite than he’d intended. Yang’s gaze jerked up to Reuenthal’s face. Reuenthal met the stare evenly before turning back to the board, setting down another seed. 

“Imagine a battlefield with set victory parameters,” Yang said, gesturing at the board. “If the goal is to capture territory, then the most important parts of the board to take first is likely the corners, where you’d have to expend the least resources to hold the line. Starting at the centre would isolate you instantly. Connecting groups together in a supply chain of sorts would make them more difficult to capture.” 

“Did you just come up with that offhand, or did you read something in the vault?” 

“I looked up an article on the Imperial Network to find the rules of play,” Yang said, placing another seed. All four Yang seeds now sat near the corners of the board. Finishing his dinner, Yang set it aside and absently wiped his mouth on a handkerchief. “Formations in one part of the board could strategically influence another.” 

“I’m beginning to see why you might prefer this to 3D chess.” This time, Reuenthal paid more attention before selecting a position. He was already losing thanks to his unforced errors of indifference, but a losing position had never discouraged Reuenthal. 

“Chess is a hierarchical game where the goal is to kill enough things on the board until you can capture the King. Go is an imperial game of territory.” Yang tapped a black seed against his soft lips as he watched the board. “I’ve never been a fan of the scorched earth approach to war.” 

“Isn’t this game worse?” Reuenthal asked, trying not to stare at Yang’s mouth. “There are far more soldiers in play.” 

“It’s possible to create groups in Go that can’t be killed off. I like that idea. An immovable point.” 

“Like Iserlohn Fortress?” Reuenthal said, with a faint curl to his mouth. The much-contested Iserlohn Fortress had briefly fallen to Phezzanese guerilla tactics, only for Yang to come up with an unorthodox but workable strategy to take it back. In return, Reinhard had wanted to name Yang Commander of the fortress, but Yang had demurred. He was too lazy to move house, he’d said. 

“Iserlohn is hardly immovable.” Yang yawned. “I’m already winning. Do you want to draw this out or go to bed?” 

Surprised, Reuenthal said, “You’d want to? You’re not in heat.” 

“What does that have to do with anything? It’s late, it’s going to be a cold night, and you’re warm.” 

“You…” Reuenthal shook his head slowly, somehow gratified and disappointed all at once. “Fine. But if you snore, I’m kicking you to the couch.” 

“If you do, Julian will probably shoot you in the morning.” Yang appeared to consider this eventuality with all due seriousness. “And that would be such a hassle for everyone.” 

“Sentimental as always,” Reuenthal said, helping Yang off the table and pulling him close. 

Yang allowed the gesture, leaning up to scent Reuenthal’s throat. With a ‘normal’ omega, it was a gesture of intimacy, of want, of trust. With Yang, though—his warm breath tickled over Reuenthal’s jugular as he chuckled. “Depends on the sentiment.”

#

Oberstein paused outside Yang’s office in the Ministry of War, frowning slightly as he noticed that it was occupied. Yang’s tendency to insist on working at home or aboard his flagship—when he was feeling particularly antisocial—meant his office in the Ministry was unusually neat and orderly. Rumour had it that certain other Admirals sometimes used it as a quiet place to take an uninterrupted nap.

The door was open. Yang was cross-legged on the desk with his fluffy cat curled in his lap, staring at a wooden box with a black grid on its surface and a scattering of white seeds placed at different points. As Oberstein knocked on the door, Yang glanced up. “Ah… good afternoon. Or evening?” Scratching his jaw, Yang glanced over at the clock. “Afternoon.” 

Oberstein walked in, hands folded behind his back. Yang’s office was one of the smallest ones in the Ministry, half the size of Oberstein’s. Yang’s detractors often said he deserved it—the man was hardly there anyway. His supporters preferred to imply that it was because of bias: that of course the only omega Admiral in the fleet was left with the smallest office. Anonymous and subtle as criticism tended to be in the Empire, Oberstein was aware of it all. Information was such a useful weapon. 

“How is your cat?” Oberstein asked as he approached. “I ran into Senior Admiral Reuenthal in the clinic.” 

“Yes, he said. Cat’s fine; he probably ate some plastic again. How’s your dog doing?” 

“She has an old dog disease,” Oberstein said, coming to a stop at a respectful distance. 

“Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“It can’t be helped. Acute pancreatitis. On top of her arthritis.” Some days, Oberstein looked at the dog and was surprised that she could still manage the energy to greet him at the door every evening. 

Yang made a face. “Humanity’s advanced so far. Walked among the stars. And yet we still can’t cure certain ailments.” 

“There’s no cure for age.” 

“Doesn’t stop scientists from looking for one. It’s one of the few ongoing projects from the Goldenbaum Dynasty that Reinhard’s retained.”

Some of the other Admirals would’ve rebuked Yang for his spotty approach to titles, but Oberstein understood that titles were shallow social constructs. Reinhard was the person Yang respected most in the universe—whatever he called Reinhard didn’t matter. “You don’t approve,” Oberstein said. 

“Living forever?” Yang shuddered. “What a violent thing.” 

“Violent? How so?” 

“Besides,” Yang said, ignoring the question, “it’d mean retirement would no longer exist. What a horrible thought.” He set down a white seed on the board. 

Oberstein studied the pattern on the board. Word that Yang had casually pilfered the board from the Vault had reached Oberstein within the hour of it happening, along with everything that Yang and Reinhard had read in the Vault. Oberstein had filed the details away in the orderly recesses of his mind for future use, if any. He kept careful files on all of Reinhard’s Admirals, and of them all, Yang was the most unpredictable, both a rare genius and an irredeemable sloth. He was an omega who lacked ambition, and yet was someone so gifted in war that for him, high office had always been inevitable.

“I thought you would welcome it. If a good emperor could live forever, wouldn’t that remove your reservations about benevolent autocracy?” Oberstein asked. Duke Reinhard ascending to the throne was only a matter of time.

“Benevolent,” Yang repeated, with a twist to his mouth, setting down a black seed. “No, not particularly.”

“You’re hardly a stranger to violence and the violent,” Oberstein probed. “Isn’t Reuenthal now a regular visitor to your home? You even have him running your errands. Impressive.” 

Yang stared at Oberstein, his expression carefully blank. “Did you want something, Minister?” 

“I was merely satisfying a handful of curiosities.” Oberstein took a white seed from the tray and set it down at another section of the board.

“That move’s a mistake.”

“Is it?” Oberstein inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Senior Admiral. I hope to see you in the general progress meeting with the Duke later in the evening at the Central Command Centre.” 

Frowning at the board, Yang made no answer, not even looking up as Oberstein left. Yang did not attend the meeting—but as he didn’t usually bother to, his absence passed notice with only the usual grumbling about disrespect from Wittenfeld. Oberstein smiled faintly as he contemplated the empty chair. He looked up into Reuenthal’s cold stare, which he held for a pointed moment before glancing away.

#

Yang was already home by the time Reuenthal got to his residence, cross-legged on the coffee table this time with the board before him. A lone white seed sat isolated in a section of the board, and Yang was staring thoughtfully at it as though it contained the secret to the universe.

“You should have attended the meeting,” Reuenthal told him, settling down by the table. “You’ve been assigned to the Phezzan campaign.” 

“I know,” Yang said absently. “Reinhard told me in the Vault. I don’t agree with his reasoning, but I’ll go.” 

“I’ve been sent to Tiamat.” Rumours of the FPA-Phezzanese alliance building a hidden fleet somewhere in that region had to be addressed directly. 

“I know that too. Reinhard made it a point to tell me that first.” Yang lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. “I told him that deploying his Admirals however he liked has always been his prerogative.” 

“We’ll be apart for some time.” 

“Logically, yes, that would appear to be the case.” 

Reuenthal set his jaw, annoyed for some nascent reason he couldn’t pinpoint. It wasn’t longing, wasn’t disappointment. He and Yang weren’t friends, weren’t lovers. They were something in between, something that fit within the cracks and gaps of their lives, ill-defined due to sentiment and apathy alike. Deployment was part of life in the military, one that he used to look forward to. Staying planetside, mired in administrative tasks, was for many Admirals a special kind of hell. 

“You’d do fine,” Yang said as an afterthought.

Deciding not to grace that with a response, Reuenthal studied the board. “You’re playing against yourself?”

“I was, then I wasn’t. Oberstein happened by.” 

“What? When?” Reuenthal said, scowling. “What did he want?” 

“Who knows. It was in the Ministry. He was asking after my cat. So I asked after his dog, and eh.” Yang made a dismissive gesture, still watching the board. “Are intentionally made mistakes still mistakes?” 

“It’d depend on the consequences. Oberstein dislikes small talk. Why would he bother, unless he had something he wanted to know?” 

“Whatever it is, he’s left me alone since.” Yang got up from the table, and Reuenthal straightened up as Yang settled over his knees, looping his arms over Reuenthal’s shoulders. “Consequences, hm?” 

“You’re in an odd mood,” Reuenthal said. Yang’s usual air of apathy was gutted today with a strange tension. He looked pensive, lips pressed together as he looked Reuenthal slowly over. 

“It’s irritating how handsome you are,” Yang said. 

“The way you phrase your compliments annoys me,” Reuenthal said, though he stroked his palms idly up Yang’s thighs, the loose fabric of his pants bunching up under his hands. “There’s always a sting to them, at least where I’m concerned. Your preferred way of conducting a tactical retreat, I believe.” 

“Do you ever think it’s unfair? That Mittermeier gets called the ‘Gale Wolf’, that I’m called the ‘Magician’, but you’re stuck with ‘Bewitching Eyes’?” 

“Why would I care about something like that?” 

“And yet,” Yang said, as though Reuenthal hadn’t spoken, “they _are_ bewitching. They’re what I remember from the favour.”

Reuenthal’s lip curled. He never liked discussing his eyes, not when sober. “My mother didn’t share your regard.” 

“So I hear.” Yang inched closer, kissing Reuenthal gently on the forehead. “It isn’t the colour of your eyes that draws me in, though they are unusual. It’s how fierce they are, how bitter. The eyes of a hunting-bird, angry at having to wear a leash.”

“That’s what you think,” Reuenthal said, with a curt laugh. 

“Hm. Is that wrong, then? Yang nuzzled down to Reuenthal’s throat, breathing deep. “I wondered briefly why you asked if I was on birth control. Did you hate the idea of having a child with me so very much?” 

“Yang—”

“I don’t think that I’m the problem,” Yang said, pressing a kiss to Reuenthal’s pulse. “You know you wouldn’t have to be responsible for one. We’re both wealthy enough to keep our own households, and I wouldn’t have used something like that to force you into my life.” Yang’s palm stroked slowly down Reuenthal’s chest. “I think you hate yourself, with a hate so great that you don’t consider yourself worthy of personal blessings.”

“You think children are blessings?” Reuenthal’s question sounded distant to his ears. His cheeks felt flushed, though not from anything close to shame. The Magician had judged Reuenthal and laid him bare, and it was both an outrage and a relief. “Have you been talking to Mittermeier?” 

“Hm? No. We don’t usually talk outside of work.” Yang looked soberly at Reuenthal. “Choosing you for the favour was an intentional mistake.” 

A cold chill went down Reuenthal’s back. “If I’m not welcome—”

“You are, and that’s the problem. A complication, despite everything.” Yang closed his eyes, rolling his hips. Reuenthal gasped, grabbing at Yang’s waist to hold him still, even as Reuenthal’s cock twitched between Yang’s thighs. 

“I know you don’t want this,” Reuenthal growled. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“How would you know what I want, or don’t want?” Yang said, with a wry smile. 

“You were bored when you were in heat,” Reuenthal told him. 

“I was. Heat is a physical reaction. I feel disconnected from those, most of the time. It’s just another bodily function. But sometimes the stars align. Give me an irritatingly handsome alpha, one whose company I’ve grown to like and respect—” Yang ground down with a low gasp, “—and sometimes there’d be an ember, something that can be coaxed into more. If you want it.” 

“This isn’t you trying to humour me, is it?”

Yang laughed, his gaze warm with amusement. “You aren’t _that_ handsome.”

Reuenthal sniffed. He was gentle as he peeled off Yang’s shirt, as he mouthed kisses over Yang’s lean chest and felt Yang shiver against him. This somehow felt more intimate than the trysts that Reuenthal was used to over the years, with a string of people more lovely and more eager to please than the man in his arms. Yang unbuttoned Reuenthal’s jacket and shirt but didn’t bother to help further, instead nuzzling kisses into Reuenthal’s hair, his temple, his cheek. Yang was growing wet by the time Reuenthal tossed his pants and underwear off the couch, squirming with a soft and startled sound as Reuenthal stroked him, too impatient now to be gentle. 

“Julian?” Reuenthal whispered, mindful that Yang no longer lived alone. 

“Staying over with a friend.”

“That boy has friends his age?”

“I didn’t say they were his age.” Yang bit down on his lower lip as Reuenthal pressed a finger inside him, squirming. “Mittermeier’s away and his wife caught a bad cold. Julian offered to stay over and help out.”

“He never told me,” Reuenthal said, surprised.

Yang chuckled, his eyes bright as he kissed Reuenthal playfully on the nose. “Your antipathy towards an entire gender is well-known. Honestly. You need therapy.” 

“I don’t hate an entire gender,” Reuenthal muttered, but lost interest in defending himself further as Yang unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. Yang was a tighter fit outside of his heat, breathing shallowly as his body opened reluctantly under Reuenthal’s coaxing. “I could use my mouth,” Reuenthal offered, but Yang shook his head and kissed him, trembling, waiting. 

Reuenthal had never had sex like this, slow and attentive and tender. The achingly careful pace made it sweeter, somehow, as Yang sank down over him, sweeter than even the heat they’d spent together. Yang wanted this—wanted _him_ , for more than something physical: he saw and wanted the self-hatred in Reuenthal, the simmering buried rage, the ice above it all, filed into sharp edges. Reuenthal kissed Yang’s throat, his shoulders, and dug for the man beneath the Magician’s cloak, the rabbit curled deep within the hat. Beneath the sloth, the contradictions, the legend. They fit easily together with all that they were seen and stripped away, moving against each other in a slow rhythm, the wet sounds of their bodies meeting growing louder around them.

“Yang,” Reuenthal gasped, “I’m close. My knot—”

“I know,” Yang said, lifting himself on his knees for leverage to drive himself down in hard snaps. 

Reuenthal groaned, reaching between them with his slicked hand to stroke Yang’s cock. He didn’t push, unsure of what Yang meant by knowing—his knot was swelling, a solid mass that caught against Yang’s body with each thrust until Yang sank down and bit Reuenthal where he had first bloodied him, high on his neck. Reuenthal hissed, shuddering into his release, his knot swelling until they were locked fast, face to face. Yang shivered over him at another tug, soiling Reuenthal’s fingers with a low oath. 

“Ah, now we’re stuck here for ten minutes,” Yang said as they caught their breath. “What a pain.” 

“I’m not even angry that you said that,” Reuenthal said, sleepy and sated enough to be magnanimous. “You’re the one who wanted this.” 

“Another intentional mistake,” Yang said, making a face. “I make a lot of those around you.” 

This was possibly the closest that Yang would ever get to a confession of sentiment, after a fashion. Reuenthal huffed and leaned in, brushing his lips against Yang’s mouth until Yang deepened the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my writing, prompt policy: manic-intent.tumblr.com 
> 
> Refs:  
> In Melbourne, when you book a vet appointment, it’s under your pet’s name, and they will add your surname to it no matter what. This means that my cats’ carefully considered, functionally complete names have been ruined on paper by my surname, haha.  
> https://www.britgo.org/learners/chessgo


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